


indulgence & necessity

by insistentbass



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-07-05
Updated: 2012-08-01
Packaged: 2017-11-20 13:48:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/586035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/insistentbass/pseuds/insistentbass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Indulgent necessity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. indulgence

If there’s one certain thing that John Watson knows, it is the value of a good shower. Nothing like it really; it was one of the first things he had enjoyed on his return to England, alone _(so alone)_ in the pristine bathroom of an extortionately priced London hotel, water sluicing rivers down his torn back, over aching muscles and tired bones.  
  
Even though the novelty has worn off, now, John still appreciates the cleansing of it, like ritual. The hot steam somehow evaporates whatever crap the day has thrown at him (prepares him for what is yet to come), scrubs away the blood and anger and the cruel nature of the world that he and Sherlock thrive in. More importantly, John gets solitude.   
  
To think, to recollect, to gather, to hope - and sometimes, to wank.  
  
Mhm, yeah. _Good_. Especially with the combined sensations of scalding hot water creating paths across his weary skin; waking it up, _burning it up_ , and the press of cool tile beneath his hand as he holds on, his last anchor to reality. Somehow, being in the confines of a glass cocoon allows his mind to flow freely, guiltlessly, journey through scenarios and half-fantasies that he would never consider otherwise (not even in the depths of night, hand thrust into boxers).  
  
Outside, rain begins to beat away the last remaining sun as dusk crowds in, the wind picks up, daytime leaves London - but John doesn’t notice any of it. Doesn’t care, not in here; this is his own world, half an hour of pure privacy, indulgence. And this evening, John gratifies himself like he hasn’t for a while, entertains the darkest corners of himself; _delights_.  
  
John thinks of women, at first; pretty, lovely, curvaceous and sinking to their perfect knees in front of him, ex-girlfriends, faceless bodies, _Sarah_ , for a few moments. Then he stops kidding himself - _then_ , there are flat chests and planes of muscle rippled skin, strong arms and even stronger hands wrapping themselves around John’s length, a rough brush of stubble against his lips as he works himself hard, faster, bathing in the luxury of things forbidden.  
  
Perhaps he’s being greedy, selfish even, thinking about things he has no intention of acting on. In the throes of building ecstasy though, the gathering of heat and pressure coiling in his stomach, nothing really matters. There is no remorse or guilt or _am I actually gay?_ \- those are saved for the dregs of a doubtful sleep.  
  
The shower pressure is on full, hammering against the tiles and John’s pores; a filter, a barrier between his safe-house and everything, _everyone_ else. John tightens his hand, grips with strong intention, closes his eyes and presses his forehead to the icy contrast of glass wall - does _not_ hear, consequently, the _slide click_ of the door latch, or the small tiny breath exhaled from the lungs of a silent intruder.  
  
“Ah, this explains why we never have any hot water” Sherlock announces, and John’s neck clicks painfully as he snaps his head up lightening quick, _almost_ jumps out of his skin.  
  
An exclaimed string of curse words would be the desired response - _what the bloody hell Sherlock?_ \- but naturally, all John can do is stand there, hand still on cock, mouth comically agape, breath still tumbling out at a hundred miles an hour, and splutter with splendid incoherence.  
  
“Do continue, John”  
  
Damn Sherlock, because he’s standing there as if John isn’t wet and naked and completely, mercilessly, exposed. Is standing there as if everything is fine and fucking dandy, as if privacy and social normality and human decency are all void, disregarded. He shouldn’t be surprised really, this _is_ Sherlock, and John _does_ still have his fingers tightly wrapped around the head of his cock, gently glistening in encouragement.  
  
For a few more embarrassing moments, John gapes and mouths _what_ and generally goes through every facial contortion his muscles can physically manage. He probably should move, or yell, or at least cover himself up a little bit - but his brain is wired, it’s more than a tad aroused and to hell with it, to hell with Sherlock if he thinks he can take _this_ away from him.  
  
“Right, okay.” John breathes, his words misting the glass as he presses his head to it again, shuts out the new intrusion because he can do this - _he can do this_ \- but he refuses to give Sherlock the satisfaction of eye contact.  
  
Sherlock’s smirk is loud and obvious, but John does a pretty fabulous job of ignoring it. Mostly because he’s performing - stroking himself long and luxuriously now because he has a goddamn audience; taking his sweet time to thumb and smooth a small bead of pre-cum, arches his back into his own firm hand movements, mouths his breaths preciously and determined, lips dragging across the cool glass as he controls them.  
  
“Don’t hold back”  
  
Sherlock says, his voice sandpaper, and John knows what he means. Many things are unspoken between them and it fails to shock him that _this_ is one of them, too.  
  
With a strangled groan, John removes his hand from himself; shifts his feet and spreads them as far apart as possible, jams one knee into the corner of the wall to anchor himself a little, bends, absolutely spreads himself over shamelessly, arse pert and practically shaking. John feels utterly dirty, can feel his cheeks reddening but does not stop; cannot stop now that Sherlock is watching him with such intent that it burns each hair on his body, now that Sherlock has asked (commanded) for more.  
  
John’s in some alternate universe, he’s sure, as he reaches around himself and begins to tease the tight ring of muscle. Blurry, he hears himself moan, feels the vibrations of his own desire rebounding off the tiles and glass, can’t keep control of his tongue as he pushes one finger inside himself, barely an effort because _fucking Christ_ , he’s so turned on right now that nothing as small as pain matters.  
  
It’s his own mistake when John turns to look at Sherlock, had only meant to find room to breathe and instead finds two gigantic black orbs turned on him, blown with something akin to wonder. God help him, it only spurs him on - John curses and blinks but does not look away again; can’t now he’s seen the pure interest, curiosity, suppressed want blooming across Sherlock’s face. The man’s leaning nonchalantly against the door frame but his hands are clenched, tight fists that imply everything but give away nothing.  
  
“Another” Sherlock requests, a huskily bitten out command, and John’s sure that there’s more to be said, a torrent of things that Sherlock wants to tell him, demand of him, _requires_ of him. And that singular thought is enough to make John do _anything_.  
  
So he steadies his legs again from where they’ve slipped, water still rushing against his very nerves, retracts his finger and adds another, eases himself in slower, _purposefully_ , absorbs the arousal curling on Sherlock’s lips, the hitches of his breath, the bob of throat as he swallows.  
  
God, he needs more. Can feel the burn and stretch of muscle as he attempts to fill himself, _so so_ close but not nearly enough. John hates himself, a little, but can’t help the way he looks to Sherlock, drags a tongue across his bottom lip and asks with his voice breaking, words dripping submission -  
  
“Tell me, _tell me_ what to do, Sherlock”  
  
Now and again John manages to catch the man off guard, and this is one of those times - Sherlock’s mouth parts and he moans, a ghost of a moan, trapped somewhere between his teeth and reality; glances for the briefest of moments at the shadow of his own arousal, before meeting John’s questioning eyes.  
  
“Stroke yourself,” Sherlock says, cuts through the cascading water, and the words shiver through John like the cold dawning of realisation. “Keep moving your fingers, deeper”  
  
Maybe it’s cliché, but John really could get off on just this, just having Sherlock talk and _guide_ him like he does in all things; giving control to someone who he knows could so easily lose it, is thrilling, beautifully sinful and feels like _freedom_.  
  
John does as commanded, strokes himself with renewed vigour because he’s close, he’s near the end and _he really doesn’t want to be_ ; doesn’t want to melt back into reality when this bubble of indulgence is so rare and spectacularly consuming. But John does what he’s told, moves around himself faster until he can feel the spiking, the piquing of heat pooling in his gut, tries to anchor himself to the painful pleasure of his own fingers moving inside, pushing -  
  
“More, stretch yourself,” Sherlock rasps, breathes, stitches his words around and in John as if they belong there, live there. “For me, John”  
  
There, _that_ , is just too much. John curses, screws his eyes up and slam fist against tile as he comes, proclamations and pure abandon pouring from his lips. Muscles contract and everything else implodes; John rides it out like it’s the last time, skin shaking and heart burning.  
  
Water continues to batter his worn nerves, aching his body as he breathes through the last of glory. Everything suddenly feels hyper sensitive, and John far too quickly becomes aware of himself; of his laboured breathing, his shivering pores, his bruising knee.  
  
“Sherlock” He exhales; prays.  
  
John turns, and the doorway is empty. There’s a halo of steam on the wall where Sherlock had been stood, condensation slowly gathering and prickling its way across the concrete. John scrubs both water wrinkled hands across his face, cleans himself, switches off the shower - and ultimately, is alone.  
  
 _(So alone, and I owe you so much.)_

  


  


  



	2. necessity

Sometimes it’s as simple as a moment of shared eye contact, and John sees himself; spread bare, scalding hot, the fingers of one hand scrabbling for purchase on cool glass, the others desperately working his own body open, and Sherlock - demanding, _captivated_.

Confusion, mostly, is the feeling. That and general (raging, tormenting) arousal.

Of course at first, John’s angry. Perfectly reasonable to be a little bit pissed when your deranged flatmate barges in for a bit of voyeurism, mid-shower, mid-wank. But then soon, anger morphs into shame, blossoms into lovely voluminous confusion, pretty much _plummets_ into a pit of sexual frustration, and now rests somewhere in between; a volatile combination of pure hatred and incurable desire.

Perhaps even worse - now he _wants_ to be caught. John finds himself actively making sure that Sherlock has several opportunities to walk in on him; showering, dressing, doing press ups in the mornings… It gets to the point where John takes to walking around for the best half of the morning in nothing but his boxers, just to catch Sherlock’s attention, before he realises that he really _is_ as fucked up as his therapist says and should probably pay her more.

And Sherlock, _well_ \- you can’t _not_ notice someone doing very loud and violent press ups in your direct line of sight - so John’s either being fake ignored for the man’s sadistic pleasure, or he actually thinks John’s just turned into some crazy naked fitness freak. Either way: very much not good.

Cases have been more than lacking, and it’s a couple of days after a particularly slow one that John reaches the end of his tether. Sherlock’s being a complete dick, as per; throwing anything within arms-length across the living room, sending files of case notes soaring through the air until it’s practically raining paper. There’s nothing John can do, obviously, at a time like this - save pinning Sherlock down and restraining him - but given his current over sexed brain, John thinks that’s probably not such a good idea. So, he leaves.

John’s feet carry him several streets away before he realises that the familiar wallet shape in his jeans pocket is missing. Which is just great, given that it’s raining and it’s winter, and everything in London that isn’t cold or wet happens to cost money. Fabulously frustrated, John continues to wander aimlessly, attempts to cool his head and just stop thinking _entirely_ , before he returns to Baker Street.

He’s nearly certain what awaits his return - broken appliances, hazardous chemicals in the fridge, the whole flat overturned in search of cigarettes or a forgotten experiment - and John can prepare himself for that, has experienced so many of these ‘dark days’ that the light ones seem ultra-florescent.

What John doesn’t expect to find, though, is a nicotine deprived Sherlock spread across the sofa, having a cheeky wank.

Except _that’s_ not cheeky at all, John observes - as he remembers to breathe and feels his knuckles turning white against the door frame - it’s desperate, frantic, _starved_.

And good _God_ it’s real life porn. Sherlock’s draped like fine silk, legs splayed; one anchored on the floor and the other riding up the back of the sofa with each jerk of his hips. John’s seen him naked before, (hard not to when the man prefers bed sheets to actual clothes), but this is completely different because Sherlock’s managing to be completely _bare_ without technically being so; still has trousers bunched around his grounded leg, dark shirt hardly clinging to his unfairly milky chest, the tiniest gradient of rose tinting his cheeks. All that, plus the muscles and delicate sinews of Sherlock’s shoulders that ripple deliciously with each movement, makes John feel slightly sick.

There’s a second or two where he thinks about simply leaving, and nearly goes to do so, until Sherlock looks at him. _Reaches_ into him, and John has to speak or else lose his sanity completely, blinks;

“So, you are actually human, then”

It’s the best he can do given that Sherlock’s got one long hand wrapped around himself and seems intent upon reminding John of this; smooths his thumb across the head without breaking eye contact, _slow._

“Yes, well done John, _great_ deduction”

But the sarcasm is mostly lost in the breathy, rolled out groan that smothers Sherlock’s words, and the arch of his pelvis that accompanies them. John’s not sure how nonchalant he’s coming off as, but he really doesn’t think it’s good; can feel his own cheeks reddening to match Sherlock’s, his eyes exploding with pent up lust, and his cock conjuring up several million different scenarios.  His brain, though, doesn’t seem to care. In fact, it thinks _good_ ; more.

It thinks - _my turn._

Right now jumping into the shower seems like a marvellous idea, and probably the most sensible one - but John’s entire body has different ideas. The pads of his fingers call out for pale moon skin, to pull and scratch and mark, the grooves and creases of his palms want to press and collect memories, his tongue aches for the taste of Sherlock’s sweat, bitter. But it’s his throat that betrays him, roughs out Sherlock’s own line that’s been stuck in his head for weeks -

“Don’t hold back”

The words simmer across Sherlock’s face, dance in his space blown pupils for a few seconds and John thinks for a moment that perhaps he won’t; maybe he’s pushed too far and that alternate universe shower from a few weeks ago is nothing more than a distant, forgotten memory. Then Sherlock breathes, an exhale that seems to shake his very bones awake, and begins to move his hand again.

John moves, nearly falls into his armchair because his knees have turned useless, and _hell_ if he’s standing for this.

It’s unfair, really, because John’s own body is reacting before he has chance to think about it; his grip tightens on the arms of the chair to stop from reaching down, from pressing a desperate palm to the greedy ache in his trousers, and to quell the overwhelming urge to pull Sherlock’s hands away and replace them with his own _tongue_.

But John is military, after all, still has some ounce of control over his own body. Instead, he lets his eyes burn with the sight of Sherlock; the midnight hair that’s beginning to stick to a sheen of sweat on his forehead, the landscape of his near bare chest, ribs that protrude then disappear with each shaky breath, and the unguarded strokes of Sherlock’s hand across his length. John drinks him in because that’s all he can do, right now, all he is willing to give, thinks - _look, don’t touch_ \- and uses all his will to do so.

Roles have been reversed and John’s not sure if he likes it, would give anything right now just to touch or be touched, needs _something_ at least.

“John, _tell me_ ” Sherlock whispers, quiet and small, but it’s loud and inviting to John’s ears, burning with a thousand dangerous things - and _damn_ his self-control.

Damn everything, because how can he possibly deny Sherlock this? How can he possibly deny _himself_ the opportunity to carve words into the man’s nerves, make him do things that John would never ask of; his wants, the most hidden atoms of his desires. This isn’t about indulgence anymore, not satisfaction - this is _necessity_ ; and Sherlock needs it as much as John does.

So John commands;

“Open yourself, Sherlock”

And Sherlock’s strangled moan is either relief or acute desperation, John doesn’t care, can’t really stop to analyse anything but the stretch of Sherlock’s neck as he throws his head back; the bob of his throat as it rumbles with need, eyes hooded and transfixed on John’s own, asking, pleading for more. The reluctant hand that leaves Sherlock’s length reaches around himself instead; he plants the flat of his climbing foot against the seat of the sofa and attempts to shift himself up, angles with frustrated groans until the tip of his finger reaches a ring of tight, inviting muscles.

John almost lets out a tormented noise but catches himself; this isn’t about relief, after all, even if his body thinks it is. He watches with sweat gathering at the small of his back, as Sherlock begins to work himself open, does so with all the grace of a struggling beast, and no - that’s not what John wants at all.

“Slow,” He commands, traces his bottom lip with the flat of his tongue as Sherlock stops. “Spread your knees, I want to see all of you.”

This time Sherlock _does_ moan, the vibration of it trembles the walls and across John’s skin, digs itself into every pore until he feels completely coated in him. John feels the dog tags sitting hidden, cold against his own chest, and reminds himself he can do this, he can be this, _he can own this._

That belief must be radiating from the very hairs of his arms, because Sherlock is doing exactly as demanded; knees as far apart as possible, arse raised and quivering with the effort of staying in John’s line of sight. It’s as beautiful as it is utterly filthy, and the power is simply delectable. Sherlock’s stray hand drifts back to his abandoned arousal, curls around it before John shakes his head.

“No, not yet”

Sherlock’s eyes widen a fraction, consider him with an almost disbelieving curiosity, but eventually he retracts his hand. John keeps his face as blank as he possible, his gaze hard, tries to give Sherlock nothing but the sound of his voice and his own dirty thoughts. Continues to watch, as Sherlock’s mouth forms around the word _more_ , but is unable to voice it; neck strained and hips wantonly rising to each push of his fingers.

“Think of me, Sherlock,” John instructs, shifts in his chair because Christ, he’s getting uncomfortable now, his jeans restricting and unnecessary. “I think of _you_ , every time”

And perhaps that’s giving him too much, but it’s worth it - fuck it’s _definitely_ worth it to see Sherlock snap his hips up at John’s words; to watch him slide in another finger alongside his first, push through the burn and shamelessly stretch himself open, all for John’s pleasure.

“ _You_ , down on your knees, with your mouth begging - you’re so good, Sherlock, do you know that? Right now, just _perfect_.”

John can’t help but feel satisfied, can’t help but let the power go to his head as Sherlock chokes on a needy sob; pushes into himself faster, uses his other hand to claw at the sofa, to restrain himself. Staggered breaths ricochet off the living room walls, echo in John’s chest and run through his blood.

Sherlock looks at him, and John sees a plethora of words and confessions that he knows he’ll never hear.

“You can touch yourself, now.”

And the man doesn’t hesitate; grips himself and works in time to the thrust of his fingers and John drags his eyes across the length of him, discovers each muscle and movement of his body, and commits it all selfishly to memory.

“Do you wish it was me, _inside_ , Sherlock - I’d work so hard, for you”

There’s no reply but John, with all his doubts and his average brain, deduces the answer, it’s written all over Sherlock’s flesh; in his shaking limbs, the wet breaths on his parted lips, the last guilty push of digits and tightening of muscles - the silently confessed name that drips from his tongue as Sherlock tips over the line, spills across his own chest.

Baker Street is silent, save Sherlock’s circulatory breathing, but to John it’s the loudest it’s ever been. He needs to leave, _now_ , get out and far away from this thing, this clash of guilty want and shameful revelation. John doesn’t much fancy wandering London’s streets with the effects of Sherlock on his body still so painfully obvious, doesn’t much fancy doing _anything_ actually, except sinking into the armchair and hoping it will swallow him whole.

Sherlock prises his lids open to catch John, but he looks away, can’t bring himself to see whatever’s there, or show Sherlock what’s in his own head. _Leave_ , he thinks, _just leave_.

So he does; grabs the abandoned scarf lying over the back of his chair and throws it in Sherlock’s direction, hears the glide of it against the man’s skin as he cleans his mess, doesn’t turn back to look as he pushes himself up.

“ _John_ -”

But he’s halfway up the stairs before Sherlock manages to move; slams the door shut and throws himself back against it, shoves his trousers down and barely bites back his relief as he wraps a trembling hand around himself -

Thinks of ebony hair and stretched muscle as he comes, with _indulgent necessity_ , over his own hand.


End file.
